To Be or Not to Be, Conformist?
by SpellboundWinter
Summary: And as your reading this I wanna make this totally clear. We're not in a freaking relationship you poser. We're just… sharing a gloomy, pathetic existence together. Yeah, and it's no way dating. Michrietta. One-shot.


**Michrietta for Frostylicious! :D**

**I wanted to write it so like, it's a look into Henrietta's life for a moment.**

**I love Goths taste in music._ Joy Division? Bauhaus? The Cure? The Sisters of Mercy?_ Yes. So much YES.**

* * *

_Drip, drop, drip…_

Spinal fluid leaks from my right nostril.

Alright, it's not exactly spinal fluid… but that would be pretty Goth wouldn't it?

I read somewhere, some girl died from it. It was supposed to be a night of passion, a beautiful honeymoon.

Unbeknownst to the man, the woman's spinal column had ruptured mid-orgasm. He thought she was just quite or shy. After he was done with his deed, he was horrified. All that was left of his lovable, caring, compassionate wife was a corpse that donned a huge smile on her face.

Just imagine that, being ruthlessly fucked so hard that your spine actually collapses.

What a way to go.

It's dark and I love it.

I leaned forward again, pressing the black hankie against my nose. I hate allergies. Sitting in the small Village Inn by myself makes me want to rip off the flimsy cartilage and use it as a utensil ring. I swear there were weeds at ever corner in the middle of spring.

I mean, who likes spring? The conformist probably. It reminded me of the cards I would get in the mail from my crazy, drug addict aunt. She would send these cards for me with the yellow duckling popping out of an Easter egg. I don't even try to understand it. It's another fucking season that I hate.

It really puts a damper on my already cheery disposition.

With this runny nose I can barely smoke these special, and yet very illegal, imported clover cigarettes without having my nose dripping over the black, slim cancer stick. Guess who left her vintage cigarette holder at home?

Goddamn it, I feel like a little freaking kid.

And I was all alone today, that's how I wanted it. I wanted to be alone. I mean, I invited Michael out in secret. And Firkle and Pete don't need to know that.

As they say in Rome, those two can all go feast on a bag of dicks.

I puffed a little more, flicking the leftovers in the ashtray and sipping on my black coffee. But Michael… I didn't even have to check the time on the wall, I knew he was late.

I told him around noon and he's an hour late.

I doodled in my poetry book. I strive to be a writer. Like, I want to be the next Poe. I'm always thinking. My brain is always churning with thoughts and this little notebook I can write them all down. It usually contains macabre and death, you know, the usual Goth stuff.

Most of the 'true stories' that I think about are usually short stories that I'm writing. Seems believable right?

The croon of a waitress came by, pouring the black liquid into my nearly empty mug. She spoke up in her usual gruff voice. "Where are your little Goth friends? Did they wise up and get jobs?"

That was her attempt at being a bitch. Average. I'll give it a five at best. Now it's my turn.

"That's none of your business, hag." I spat, sucking down more smoke before letting it blow out in her direction. "You filled my cup. Go, you're no longer needed." I waved her off with a free hand while I doodled.

The waitresses eyes narrowed and she trudged away. I wouldn't be surprised if she was hacking up snot and spit into my coffee. Bitch.

I let my pen rest on the table, looking at the little doodle of a maggot. I had no ideas to write and I was bored out of my wits.

To be honest, I was almost panicky.

I hope he didn't ditch me. Was that conformist right? Did he wise up and leave me all alone?

Those thoughts kept repeating in my head and I was horridly nervous. I had never been stood up before. If he would have ditched me I'd have to... I-I dunno! I don't want him to ditch me. I like... Well, I desire him as human being. It would like, totally rape my heart.

I took another anxious glance behind me.

There!

A lanky, beanstalk in the parking lot. The fluffy, yet curly died black hair and the trench coat to match… It was none other than Michael.

He was locking up his junker car that his mother bought him. It wasn't dark or Goth or… anything like that. It was light blue four door that could have suited an old lady.

He was pretty… ah, pretty nice looking… compared to- Whatever, Michael was an attractive life form. Nothing more to it.

I quickly turned away from him. I did not want to appear too desperate. I brought the cigarette to my lips, sitting myself straight and placing a more annoyed look on my face.

The taller man appeared through the doors, peering all around with his cane in hand. Once his eyes locked with mine and he made his way over, muttering, "Henrietta" in his very unique voice.

My stomach was churning and a sour feeling appeared once again. I felt sick rising in my throat but I held it down, refusing to pull a Raven- excuse me, a _Marsh_ and vomit onto him.

Speaking of a stomach on tumble dry, I heard about this woman with an unfathomable appetite who ate octopus eggs. What she didn't know was that the lethal octopi eggs had attached to the lining of her stomach. The unfortunate woman thought she was pregnant.

Overjoyed, ecstatic and fruitful but very dead. They found her foaming at the mouth with a swollen stomach.

As for the octopi? Festering in her stomach acid, halfway digested.

Michael gave me a faint crooked smile, sliding into the booth beside me. Little too close, nearly knocking shoulders with me. And Goth's don't smile… often that is. My stomach kept doing flip flops, like frog leg when you pour salt on them.

"Is that a new dress?" he gestured to me.

"Yes, it is. Is that a problem?" My thin eyebrow quirked as I smoothed out the black garb. "Would you rather I be naked?"

…That slipped out way too fast. Oh my fucking god. I blame the conformists

Lizzy and Tammy for their lecherous behavior. It's rubbing of onto me now. I look like some conformist slut now! Remind me to bludgeon them later.

"No freaking way," Michael gave me an odd look before snorting. "I wouldn't mind in the least."

...That wasn't sarcasm. It caught me off guard. It even made my façade crumble for a second. "Shut the fuck up you piteous whore."

"Piteous whore?" Michael brought a hand to his face, mimicking, 'The Thinker' trying to hold back a laugh and snort. It wasn't working. "You're acting peculiar today. What do you want to do tonight?"

I felt sick again. God, I'm acting like a preppy cheerleader on her first date! I'm twenty-fucking-two. I need to snap out of it.

"I…" Clearing my throat, I spoke louder. "I don't care."

I feel like my brain was being eaten away.

It reminded me of this girl who was obsessed with sweets. Cake, doughnuts, suckers and syrups, ate them all with her fingers… stuck a finger in her ear to relieve a little scratch and later went to sleep.

At first, she thought it was an ear infection. A week went by and the pain intensified. On a Friday night she went to bed early, her doctor's appointment the very next day. Dead. Her brain's central lobe was devoured in the middle of the night by ants.

I was snapped out of my thoughts when Michael spoke again. "Why don't we go to your house, listen to some _Joy Division_?" he proposed, slinking an arm out to my pack of clove cigarettes. He thinks he's so sly.

"First, I want to talk."

"Talk…?"

"Yes, to you."

His hand finally grabbed the pack. Before he could do anything, my fingers traced the tops of his fingers. He gave me a sideways glance, smiling widely. "Henri?"

I snapped, taking my clove fag and driving it next to his hand in a swift motion. I died it into the sleeve of his trench coat with visual animosity. The whole table nearly shook under the force.

"As your significant other, do you feel obligated to make me wait for you, pencil dick?" I growled lowly. "Do you feel as though this is my punishment for something?"

Michael's eyes were as wide as dinner plates, he _definitely_ wasn't expecting that. "T-that wasn't my i-intentions."

I could feel myself grinning ear to ear. I like being delectably evil. Or even more so a bitch. "Word to the wise, please don't make me wait. I'm very impatient. I might even have to make you wait when you need me the most. Like, I dunno… If you need a kidney."

He swallowed roughly as I brought the crushed butt into the tray. There was a fresh hole in his sleeve. A large brown ring with a grey center. I was close to doing that to his hand but that would be _too_ evil.

"Because I would be delighted to make you wait long enough to be slowly poisoned by the toxins in your body as your punishment."

Michael cleared his throat again, bringing his hands to his sides, shifting uncomfortably away from me. Hm, I wonder why? It seems I've gone overboard with the nice words and flirty gestures. Sarcasm.

"Let's go already. The fun begins at my house with a little _Alien Sex Fiend_ and an Ouija board I found at an antique shop the other day." My voice was back to my normal tone, as if nothing happened. It sent him for a loop.

When he didn't respond, I gave him a playful scratch under his chin. "Maybe I'll shower you in conformist-like affection if I feel up to it."

His eyebrows furrowed and his lips scrunched together like he tasted something sour. "I don't freaking know, I might be busy today."

My hands trailed back to his thigh as I scratched at the jeans, making snagging noises. "Okay, I take that back about the pencil dick thing. That's a little too bitchy of me." I gave a timid smile. "I've seen it enough times to know it's nothing pencil. You forgive me?"

I had to hold back the urge to say, 'no, it has a few qualities like a pencil. But, it doesn't have lead or an eraser and I'd rather use a pen'. There I go again, I should really keep my mouth shut.

The curly Goth gave me a quick peck on the cheek, acting boorish and slapping my hand away while I was still teasing him. "Whatever, let's go."

I shifted out of the booth alongside him, leaving a measly quarter for tip.

It's not a date.

And as your reading this I wanna make this totally clear. We're not in a fucking relationship you poser. We're just… sharing a gloomy, pathetic existence together. Yeah, that.

So, as they say in Rome…

Go feast on a bag of dicks, conformist.


End file.
